


Manipura

by goodnightfern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Boats and Ships, Food Porn, M/M, Post-Series, light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:30:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9862670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: The third chakra, ormanipura, governs digestion and metabolism. Located in the solar plexus, this is where energies both inward and outward combine, forming the nexus of willpower and energy in the human body.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for the record, that beer mentioned comes from a hidalgo microbrewery and is V Classy.

“The intestine is extremely flexible,” Hannibal says, and starts rolling it up around the stick, effectively turning it inside out.

After fifteen minutes of flushing they’re clean inside, pale pink and slimy looking. Hannibal works fast, flipping the intestine inside-out before tossing it in other half of the sink and reaching for another section. His hands are huge and capable and bare. When dealing with the slimier sections of meat, a good grip is important.

“See? Though we pull and pull, it never tears. Some animals have thinner intestines, depending on their diet, but our beast is an omnivore.”

Yes, Will sees.

The stick wobbles inside the flat rubber wall before sliding through, and Hannibal deftly turns it out. Smooth, without the firm honeycomb rugae of the stomach. 

Will is watching. Not touching. But it’s quite pink, quite soft-looking.

Hannibal holds out a piece.

Will reaches, then hesitates. They’re clean enough. Hannibal watches him tug off one vinyl glove. It is unsanitary, yes, but he wants to feel it.

Taught, tight flesh. A few lengths of fat still dribble from inside of the tube - that will be saved for frying.

Now that Will has been shown the way, the rest of the pile is left to him. It's tricky work; he understands now why Hannibal disdains gloves for this. The intestines are rinsed again, then cut into rings. Hannibal heats a skillet and fries them till they shrink, till the tight band constricts. Fat bubbles over the rings - and Will remembers, he rendered that lard himself. That was one of the earliest lessons.

Today, Will is in charge of the tortillas. Mixing the masa, letting it rest. Finding a real stone tortilla press in the well-organized bazaar of Hannibal’s kitchen tools.

The tacos were Will’s idea. Will has his days when he decides what to cook. What techniques he wants to learn. Hannibal lets him do what he likes; it’s been their kitchen since Will was born, when the salt washed away the taste of blood.

It’s a smaller kitchen than what they had before but, it works. Everything is smaller now, albeit held under a magnifying glass to make every last crude detail the biggest thing in the universe.

The avocados were getting old; the salsa made from rehydrated dried chilis. But at least the cilantro is fresh. Straight from the herb garden, worth the precious distilled water.

Like the avocados, Ixchel is also from Nicaragua. Hannibal seemed amused by her audacity to yap at him, and so they picked her up. She whines at their feet, and Will slips his partner in crime a piece of tortilla.

Hannibal sees, of course. But all he does is open the beer.

It was Will who insisted on beer with tacos. No one drank wine with tacos. Maybe a sparkling vinho verde, at the very least - but it's Will’s night. Will’s meal. Hannibal pops the cap on the Calavera witbier as elegantly ruthless as he pops a cork.

They eat in the cabin where the sunset streams orange beams through one window and out the opposite. The wind is loud tonight, whistling through the rigging. Will sits against the sun, looks to where the western waters fade, orange to blue to purple.

It almost brings back memories of a young man in the Gulf, eating shrimp tacos with cheap cerveza on the edge of a dock. This meat is richer, chewier. The nice thing about tacos is that you have to eat them with both hands. Decorum takes a backseat. Will watches Hannibal try to eat as neatly as possible and smiles while chewing.

It’s Will’s meal, which means Will cleans. This is part of the lesson. Not that Will doesn’t offer to clean, but Hannibal always wishes him good night before he gets a chance. 

Tonight Hannibal opens a bottle of iodophor, mixes the solution and hands the bucket over.

When the last of the sanitizer is flushed down the drain, they clean themselves in the cramped shower, and retreat to the lower cabin. Ixchel is already curled up on her little bed in the corner.

Will dreams of hot summer days sailing in the Gulf. He’s a young man, then he’s an old man, then he’s not even a man at all.

  
  
  


Sections of the spine, when removed carefully, resemble oxtail. These days Will understands the inherent humor in the human tailbone. It was one of the first things Hannibal had shown him, the ape within the man. Now Will unwraps the frozen sections and thinks about an oxtail stew.

Ginger, anise, dried citrus peels and shiitake mushrooms go in with the vertebrae. The sauce is pounded with a mortar and pestle - fresh cilantro, lime juice, red chilis. There’s a few precious dates left; Will uses them sparingly. Soon a strong perfume fills the kitchen, and Hannibal sniffs appreciatively.

“We don’t have peanuts,” Will tells him. “It’s supposed to have peanuts.”

"Next stop, then. We will put peanuts at the top of the list.”

Will has been thinking that Ixchel could use a friend. It isn’t right for such a young dog to have no other dogs to play with. Next stop.

Sometimes the ache in his throat chokes him when he remembers the dogs left behind. Winston, waiting. 

Molly probably lets them sleep in the bed with her by now.

“You’re bubbling,” Hannibal says, and indeed, the pot is nearly boiling over.

Will turns it to a simmer and puts on a lid.

Ixchel sniffs his ankles. He picks her up. He’s never had a Chihuahua before; it never fails to amaze him how small she is. Her fluttering heart and fragile ribs remind him more of a baby bird than a dog.

The stew is unforgivably rich, sweet and spicy. Will layers on the sauce with each bite of meat, the fresh herbs cutting through the richness.

Will has always been a decent cook. Not like Hannibal, but good enough to catch his own fish. He knows what he’s doing, but the meat is still heavy in his stomach.

Even after their evening ablutions, the smell of anise seems to seep from their skin.

  
  
  


The liver was bitter; a clear sign of alcoholism.

Hannibal chops it into chum along with the brain and throws it overboard for the sharks. They could be feeding pigeons in a Baltimore city park right now. The meat bobs on the sea for a moment before sinking.

  
  
  


The heart benefits from a long stewing. Hannibal unveils it from the deep freeze and presents it to Will.

“We already had stew,” Will says. “What if I grind it? Let’s have - let’s have meatloaf. My mom made a great meatloaf.”

“Or,” says Hannibal, “we could fish.”

Will blinks up at Hannibal and wants to argue with him. To tell him that tonight is the night they eat the heart. This is Will’s meat, Will’s cooking, Will’s _design -_

“Well, get the poles, then,” Will says. As if he can order Hannibal around like a cabin boy.

Will is ready to battle a swordfish to his last dying breath. Instead he baits his line for tuna.

The day is hot, the sun baking the deck. Hannibal refills the stills and brings Will some of their precious ice stash. Ixchel roasts herself on the deck, content in the heat.

When the line jerks, Will wakes out of his stupor and goes to battle. He doesn’t miss how Hannibal watches him, beneath an absurd sunhat over a crisp glass of iced white wine. It’s good to sweat, to feel the tendons in his arms suffer, to brace himself against the pull.

The tuna comes up still gasping.

Hannibal has the knife, but Will doesn’t take it from him. This can be Hannibal’s meat. This can be Hannibal’s kill. This can be Will’s gift.

With one long, determined stroke, Hannibal splits the fish from cloaca to gills. The guts spill out on the deck, red liver and white innards. Ixchel sniffs curiously. Hannibal is wearing nothing but an undershirt and he’s up to his elbows in fish blood and it’s beautiful.

The meat is pink and succulent. Less fat. Less tendons. Thinner bones.

“Carpaccio,” Hannibal decides.

“Don’t you need tomatoes for that?”

“Not in Sicily.”

They still have a jar of capers somewhere in storage. Will looks in the freezer for the stored cubes of lemon juice. The heart is waiting on top of everything else.

Maybe he will grind it. Maybe he’ll make burgers. They’ll need fresh tomatoes.

Next stop it is, then. Somewhere in Brazil, perhaps - not Rio, Rio is too busy for them. But there will be somewhere, with peanuts and tomatoes and maybe a stray dog who gets along well with Ixchel. And Will will watch Hannibal eat a cheeseburger for the first time, and he’ll smile at the absurdity of it all before taking a bite and feel like the universe is finally, finally in the palm of his hand.

So Will reaches across the table while Hannibal pours the wine. Knuckles down, palm up, and waits.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i've never written a hannibal fic and of course it's a Subtle One, so... let me know whatchall think?


End file.
